Blazewrath Games

Dragons had been scarce outside of Europe and Asia until the twentieth century. In 1968, Venezuela became the first Latin American country to produce a new dragon species, the mighty Furia Roja (see Chapter Seven: Dragons with Special Weapons). Other Latin American species appeared by the hundreds shortly after, most notably the Brazilian Pesadelo (see Chapter Thirteen: The World’s Most Dangerous Dragon). The IBF first invited Central and South American nations to compete in the Blazewrath World Cup held in 1971. As of 2014, Haiti remains the only Caribbean country with a dragon species, but since they have one living dragon, they cannot qualify for the Cup. Perhaps someday the Caribbean will be the home of many dragons, too.

—Excerpt from Harleen Khurana’s A History of Blazewrath Around the World

CHAPTER SIX

Not even after the Sire’s video hit every single news outlet. Not even after I texted her to say Samira was sleeping over, then called to check if she got the text. Mr. and Mrs. Jones agreed after they heard my shaky voice on the phone. All Mom wrote back was, “OK.” She was either at the hospital or at Todd’s house taking care of him, like he’s the one she birthed.

Samira and I are in the kitchen waiting for my Transport to Dubai. I eat the scrambled eggs and bacon she cooked, but my taste buds have been wrecked along with my dream. There’s no way the IBF will ignore the Sire’s threats. The last thing they’d want is more blood on their hands. Why bother hoping for an opportunity the Sire has burned into ruin? Not even Samira twirling around with a spatula in her Sailor Moon pajamas can put me in a good mood. Papi called me after the Sire’s message, but his reassurance that everything would be okay fell flat.

“Good morning!” says President Turner, dressed in a burgundy suit and canary-yellow tie. It’s a stark contrast to Manny’s black button-down shirt and dad jeans. “You have a lovely home, Ms. Torres.” He looks at Samira. “Hello, there! We’ve not been properly introduced.”

Samira finally stops twirling, but she’s still holding the spatula. “So nice to meet you, Mr. President. I’m Samira Jones,” she chirps. “Lana’s best friend.”

“Your pajamas are delightful, Ms. Jones.” President Turner gives her a big thumbs-up.

She curtsies like it’s no big deal she’s greeting the president of the IBF in her pajamas. God, I love my best friend. “Thank you kindly.”

“Manny!” A mortified President Turner elbows him, then loosens up again as he nods at me. “Well then, Ms. Torres. All set for Transport?”

President Turner’s enthusiasm dies a little, as if he’s disappointed in me. “Why wouldn’t we? Are you set for Transport? Or do you need more time to get everything sorted?”

I search for answers in Manny’s face, but he just yawns. “What about the Sire’s message?”

President Turner’s cheeks drain of color. “The International Blazewrath Federation is cooperating with the Department of Magical Investigations in order to detain the Sire. Director Sandhar and his agents are highly capable of ensuring this threat’s capture,” he says. “Besides, twelve Dragon Knights were apprehended after last night’s broadcast.”

It’s a good thing my knees aren’t weak. Otherwise, I would’ve collapsed from shock. “That hasn’t been on the news.”

President Turner frowns. “He and some of his Dragon Knights escaped from the run-down mansion in Surrey, England, where they were hiding. The Un-Bonded Hydra from the Athens attack wasn’t in attendance. It’s possible the Hydra is no longer among their company. No need to worry, though. The bureau has several leads that will direct the task force straight to them.” He attempts a warm smile. “I give you my word, Ms. Torres. The Sire will be stopped.”

“Translation: Blazewrath is still on, nena,” says Manny. “You coming or not?”

I’m dead silent. The bureau might have leads on the Sire, but what if they fail like Agent Robinson? What if I’m on the Blazewrath field while he’s broadcasting someone else’s murder?

President Turner’s eyes are wide with panic as he steps closer to me. “This is your dream, isn’t it? You have to play in the Cup, Ms. Torres.”

I back away from him. Sure, I signed a $7 million contract, but Papi’s warning is bursting in bright red clouds all around me. Maybe he’s right. Something is off about this whole thing.

“Indeed. Don’t be surprised if we hear news of the Sire’s capture once we reach Dubai.”

I look at Manny. He tells it like it is, so I ask him, “Do you think they’ll catch the Sire?”

Manny doesn’t miss a beat. “The Sire won’t make it to tomorrow a free man.”

Samira doesn’t speak, but she’s giving me her fiercest “You better not” expression. I have no choice but to trust her judgment. It’s definitely looking like the Sire will have spellbound handcuffs around his wrists sooner than he’s anticipating. So will Takeshi Endo.

I tell President Turner, “I’m set for Transport, sir. Let me get my suitcase.”

He and Manny wait downstairs while Samira and I fetch the carry-on. When we come back, President Turner offers to hold it for me, but I reassure him I’m fine.

“Love you, too. And please don’t visit Todd. That would only make him happy.”

She laughs. I tell her I’m transferring two thousand dollars into her savings account so she can buy her last Copper wand and whatever else she damn well wants. Before she can decline the money, I roll my carry-on over to the door. I take one last look at the place where I’ve lived for the past twelve years—the place I never asked to move to—but where I grew to love Blazewrath more, locked away in my room with headphones on, scared that Mom would catch me. This is where she raised me without my father, never letting me see her break a sweat. She had no idea who her daughter was, but she fed me and clothed me and made sure I took all my vitamins.

She’s not here to send me off down the path I’ve been sketching in my mind for years.

President Turner whips out his wand. Manny moves to his right while I settle on his left.

My Adidas land on something much softer, grainier, and less steady. I peek down at the ruddy richness beneath me. Naples sand is lighter, almost bleached, more like a prop instead of a natural part of the environment. I can’t remember the sand in Puerto Rico’s beaches. I’d spent most of my time in the mountains. But I do remember the heat, and the weather here reminds me of summertime on the island, sticky and humid and awesome for eating piraguas all day.

“Welcome to Dubai! Specifically, to Pink Rock Desert.” President Turner aims his wand to what lies ahead of us. “And that over there is the Compound.”

Sand dunes roll out for miles and miles. A boiling sun shines down on the deep ruddy richness. To my left, there’s an incline with a rock formation at the top.

Right between the dunes is the Compound, which is a series of housing complexes for all sixteen teams. They look like steel bubbles splashed in white paint. The bubbles span from side to side in a horseshoe formation. They’re as big as four-story buildings. There are no gates near the Compound, but it does have a bazillion wizard security guards. Each wears sporty clothes, not the suits and dresses bureau agents are required to wear.

None of them balks at President Turner’s Transport Charm. Similar to Waxbyrne, no one can Transport into or out of the Compound, but it seems the surrounding patches of sand are fine.

“Local time is 3:17 in the afternoon. I believe we have hundred-degree weather today.” President Turner waves me forward. “Ready to meet your teammates?”

My stomach somersaults twice. I’m about to meet the six other players and their Sol de Noche steeds. This will be the first time I’m introduced as a Blazewrath athlete. Little by little, the nightmare fades to the back of my memories, carving out a hole for the dream to reemerge.

President Turner and I follow him to the Compound, where the nearest guards bow their heads to the man who hired them.

“Afternoon,” he says to every guard in sight. “Now, Ms. Torres, you’re going to feel a lot better once we pass the shield.”

“Shield?” I ask. Then a cold blast of wind slams into me. The area where the guards stand is magically air-conditioned. I can’t feel the sun burning my skin anymore, either, so the shield must also protect from getting more than a tan. “Why am I able to go through the shield?” I ask President Turner. “Do I already have some sort of magical clearance?”

“Indeed you do.” He motions to the sixth bubble on the left side. “That one is where you’ll be staying along with your teammates. They’re all expecting you.”

“Yes, they all have already arrived! You’ll be meeting everyone a few nights from now, when Ambassador Haddad hosts a special welcome party for the teams.”

Each house has a flag that designates which team lives where. Argentina, China, France, Portugal, Egypt, Puerto Rico, Zimbabwe, and Venezuela are on the left side. To the right side, there’s Russia, Scotland, South Korea, México, Pakistan, Guatemala, Sweden, and Spain.

The entrance to the sixth bubble on the left is an oval door. Manny reaches it first, sliding a matching ivory key into the lock, then leaving it open for me to follow him inside.

White walls. White floors. White couches and settees and coffee tables and vases. Three white sets of double doors: one to the left, one to the right, and the last one at the very end of the lobby. There’s even a white staircase at the opposite end of the main lobby, which spirals upward. It’s the kind of white that haunts you at hospitals. At least the flat-screen TV is a newly dusted black. A modest tower of video games and DVDs has been set up on top of a white ottoman. There are plenty of books on the white shelves, including Harleen Khurana’s A History of Blazewrath Around the World, which I devoured at the Red Crown High library in a day.

Something clangs to the floor beyond the double doors to the left. There’s some rushed chatter, too, followed by the double doors sliding open.

A man in his late twenties rolls out of the room in a wheelchair. Smiling at me like I’m a Girl Scout selling Thin Mints, he’s dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, but his Nikes are a bold neon green. He’s a younger version of Manny except for his eyes. They’re a more subtle green than his sneakers. Before his car crash three years ago, he’d been an international track-and-field superstar. I’d last seen him during the press conference announcing Puerto Rico’s invitation to the Cup, his five-year-old son sitting on his lap and his adoring wife at his side.

“Joaquín Delgado,” Manny’s tone is lighter now, “my son, and your trainer slash coach.”

I smile at Joaquín, who’s stopped right in front of me. “Very nice to meet you. I’m Lana.”

“Oh, um … Sí. Un poco.” Crap. I’ve been defaulting to English for the past twelve years. The only person I sometimes speak Spanish with is Papi, and it’s a few sentences here and there. I can understand it just fine, but sometimes stringing sentences together is a bit of a pickle.

“It’s okay. I speak both languages,” Joaquín reassures me with a sweetness I’ve yet to detect in his father. “It’s more than a pleasure to meet you, Lana. What you did for the Fire Drake was amazing. It will be an honor to train you these next few weeks.”

I must look like a kid at the Disney Store. “It’s my honor to train with you, Joaquín.”

Manny gives Joaquín a one-shoulder shrug. “¿Y los demás? ¿Dónde están?”

“En la cocina.” Joaquín waves to the room he exited earlier. “The rest of the team is in the kitchen, Lana. They wanted to give you a surprise. Ready to meet them?”

I leave my carry-on in the lobby. I’m the first to trail behind Joaquín, taking a steady breath that does little to calm my nerves. Manny and President Turner are whispering to each other behind me, but I don’t pay attention to them. I’m about to meet my human teammates.

Joaquín enters the kitchen before me. The first thing I notice is the food. Most of the offerings on the L-shaped dinner table are just one big buffet for salad lovers. Baby spinach leaves. Kale. Spring mix. An assortment of toppings is displayed in sky-blue ceramic bowls. Other bowls have every single fruit known to man. Watermelon is the clear favorite, with four plates covered in triangle slices. There are glass jugs with a variety of juices farther down, but most are filled up with a slick green substance. I spot a huge pot of arroz guisado con habichuelas at the end. Half of it is gone. I suspect it’s as delicious as it smells.

Six people stand at the end of the dinner table. The same six people whose names and faces I memorized since they were first announced as my country’s team in a two-page spread in The Weekly Scorcher. They look exactly the same as they did two years ago. Three boys. Three girls. All clad in black activewear and black sneakers, which I suspect is what they always have on.

One of the boys has a white towel around his neck and a fistful of green grapes in his mouth. He’s standing to the right, with brown skin that matches mine, short curly hair the color of wood, and wide-open eyes that are as dark as his clothes, as if I’ve just caught him in the middle of a prank. He chews at lightning speed and swallows even faster.

Luis’s laugh is hearty, vibrant, and borderline contagious. “That’s right.” He lets go and points at me. “Lana Torres. Runner.”

Wow. When a teammate says it, my new reality feels like home. “That’s me.”

“So I ate some of your grapes,” Luis admits. “I’m sorry, but you have to understand. I can’t be near grapes.” He waves to the bowl and pretends to be in the deep throes of love. Or maybe he really is in the deep throes of love. “Nothing on this earth will ever keep us apart.”

“He says the same thing about mofongo,” Joaquín says. “We don’t allow that dish in the team’s diet, but trainers can eat all the mofongo they want. Sometimes twice in one day.”

I burst out laughing. Luis joins me mid laugh, and we both sigh once the fit ends.

“There’s still more food left for you,” he says. “I only murdered most of the grapes. And the arroz con habichuelas.” Luis puffs out his chest all proud. “We prepared you dinner!”

“We? I don’t remember you doing much.” Another one of the boys walks up to me, grinning and raising an eyebrow. He towers six inches over Luis. He’s the darkest-skinned team member, even darker than Samira. His jet-black hair is cropped military style; his arms are massive, thick rods capable of pulverizing anything. “Welcome to the team, Lana.”

“You’re Héctor Sánchez. Keeper,” I say before he can. “And our team captain.”

Héctor nods. At nineteen, he’s the oldest of us all, so it makes sense for him to be our captain. “How was your Transport here?”

“It was nice. And thanks so much for the welcome. Everything looks delicious.”

“Bullying,” Luis tells Joaquín, pointing straight at Héctor. “This counts as bullying.”

The remaining boy and two of the three girls laugh behind him. The one who isn’t laughing, fifteen-year-old Victoria Peralta, stands with her arms crossed. She’s watching me like I’ve just spilled soda all over her white furniture. Victoria’s the only light-skinned girl on the team, as white as my mother, but with peach lips and caramel hair straighter than a stick. She’s even shorter than I am. I’m guessing five feet flat. Despite being the thinnest girl here, with a flat chest and small hips, she’s rocking some ridiculous muscles under that black tank top.

I try breaking the ice with a smile. She remains stone-cold serious. Maybe she’s not the smiling type? Or she could still be processing the fact that Brian Santana got fired?

“Get used to these two bickering about nothing,” says another girl. She’s headed toward me with a spring in her step. Her skin is a golden tan, but her hair is an explosion of neon that could stop traffic from a galaxy away. The right side has to be the hottest pink known to the human eye. The left side is a dazzling purple. Unlike Victoria, this girl is all boobs and hips and bubble butt. “Hi. I’m Gabriela, but you knew that already, right?”

“Best Chargers ever.” Luis drapes an arm over Gabriela. His right hand dangles from her shoulder. She holds onto his wrist, glancing up at him like a little sister admiring her big brother.

President Turner claps his hands once. “Come, come! You still haven’t been introduced to your Blockers and Striker.” He guides me forward to where the remaining team members watch me. Victoria still looks like she’d rather choke on glass than say hello. I pretend I can’t see her. I don’t think throwing a fit my first day here is the wisest idea.

President Turner halts right in front of the girl standing next to Victoria. She’s the same skin tone as Héctor, making her the darkest girl in the room, but whereas Héctor barely has hair, Génesis Castro sports an Afro of nut-brown curls. For a girl whose sole purpose is to beat the living daylights out of the opposing team’s Runner, she’s as light as a yoga instructor, lean and chiseled without too much definition. She does have an impressive set of hips, though.

President Turner waves to the boy on Victoria’s right. He’s also light-skinned, with an angular face like an elf from a Tolkien book, but his super-straight hair is entirely bleached.

“Oh.” I flash through the interviews back from two years ago. While the rest of the team answered in English, Edwin spoke exclusively in Spanish, with Luis and Gabriela alternating as his interpreters. “Hola, Edwin. Es un placer conocerte.”

“Igualmente, Lana.” He speaks with the deepest voice out of all the boys. If I’d heard him over the phone without seeing what he looks like, I’d think he’s a gigantic bouncer. Instead, the boy before me has the shape of a soccer player: strong arms, but even stronger thighs and calves.

I can’t avoid her any longer. I try another smile, hoping to appear as friendly as I’m secretly praying for her to be. “Very nice to meet you, Victoria.”

“Moving welcome, Victoria. I’m about to cry,” Manny says as he wipes a nonexistent tear away. He claims the first seat at the dinner table. “Can we eat now? I’m going to eat now.”

Nobody stops him from diving into the spring-mix salad bowl. He drowns half of his plate in ranch dressing, which has masking tape across the front labeled SÓLO PARA MANNY.

Héctor nods. “Not a problem. We can save everything until you’re hungry again.” He’s waving at the doors behind me. “Are you too tired for a walk?”

“Perfect.” He gives Joaquín a knowing look, a secret only they understand, then turns back to me. “Now let’s go meet some dragons.”